


where the weeds take root

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen, Guilt, Guilty Dean, M/M, Masturbation, Possibly Unrequited Love, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Stanford Era, please dont judge me for writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7018231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam leaves, and Dean falls apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the weeds take root

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags, if you're triggered by self-harm/self-hatred, please don't read this!! title is from Radiohead's 'Lotus Flower'.

The first night without Sam, Dean is broken.

Broken in many different ways; mainly his heart, obviously, he's just lost the only fucking thing he lived for, the only thing that made him feel wanted. Broken his hand, probably, too, from when he slammed it against the Impala steering wheel at full force on his lone drive home, causing it to fold in on itself in distortion, but the pain doesn’t compare to what he feels inside so he couldn’t give a shit less. But most of all, he's broken in that he has no control over himself anymore.

As soon as Dean returns from watching his will to live climb onto a bus and ride away to Stanford, he falls into he and Sam's shared bed face first. He buries his face into the sheets, vaguely aware of but not caring about the mess he must be making of them, smearing them with his snot and spit and tears. Flopping down on the bed was a poor decision, he realizes in delay, as when his nose clears up a little he notices the smell of his brother. His sweet baby brother who hours ago lay in this very spot, sleeping peacefully like the angel he fucking is. The realization makes Dean scream obscenities into the mattress; Dad’s not home to hear it but he wouldn't have cared anyway.

Dean doesn't even know what he's feeling; his mind is buzzing with so many thoughts coming at once that he can't make sense of any of them. Dean's not sure how long he writhed around on that bed, covered in his own sweat and snot and tears, before finally spotting Sam's unmistakable purple t-shirt with the stupid greyhound dog on it laying on the floor, carelessly discarded from when Sam changed his clothes that morning. He immediately snatches it up without thought and brings it to his face, inhaling deeply through his nose before letting the breath out with a sob. God, if he thought the smell of Sam was strong on the bed, then this was just fucking _intoxicating_. His eyes roll back gently in sick pleasure, comforted by the scent and driven crazy by it at the same time (as if he weren't already). 

Dean's suddenly aware of the tightness in his jeans, whether it be from memory of Sam pressing his slim little body up against his in a tight hug goodbye (“I love you, Dean. I’m sorry.”) or the simple smell of his brother, Dean doesn't know or care. He doesn't even think, as soon as he notices it he rips his zipper down and impatiently pulls out his cock, wrapping his broken hand around it tight, ignoring the pain that shoots up his arm. He immediately comes all over his pathetic self on his next inhale, still holding Sam's favorite shirt against his face, crying out his little brother’s name.

It takes ten more minutes of screaming and sobbing for Dean to even remember what he's done. He only does finally realize it because when he drags his hand across his face in attempt to wipe away the endless stream of tears, he feels his hand leave behind a disgusting sticky trail. He freezes, and it all comes rushing back to him.

He feels dizzy as he falls off the bed to the floor in attempt to get to the bathroom on the other side of the room. He can barely see, tears clouding his vision as he crawls slowly toward where he guesses the bathroom is. The pressure on his right hand makes the pain even more excruciating, and something inside Dean gets a sick satisfaction from it.

_You deserve it, you sick fuck._

When Dean finally crawls into the bathroom, he pulls himself up to the lip of the tub and topples into it with a thump. He blindly reaches for the faucet, turning the knob as hot as it will go when he gets a hold of it. The water pours down on him, and he just lays there on the floor, letting the increasingly scalding water land on his clothed body. He closes his eyes, his mind still buzzing with noise.

_You're disgusting. Who jerks off to their little brother? Who breaks their own hand just because their brother leaves for college? Sammy left you because you're repulsive and fucking sick, he hears the way you moan his name in your sleep. He hates you. If you died he'd probably be happy..._

That last thought does it for Dean. He bangs his injured hand against the side of the tub, screaming out at the pain it sends up his arm. He does it again and again, until he finally blacks out from the agony.

 

John finds Dean like that hours later when he returns from the bar, laying in the tub with his jeans unbuttoned and bloody hand resting on his chest, the running water long gone chilly from the trailer’s lack of a lasting water heater. Panic immediately rises in his throat and he shakes his son with one hand, turning off the water with the other. John quickly silences the voice in his head that complains about Dean leaving the water running, _Great, now the bill's gonna be fuckin' outrageous,_ because Jesus, his son is clearly in awful shape and he's here worrying about money, what a great fucking father he is.

When Dean's eyes open after a few seconds of John's jostling, John lets out a breath of relief he didn't know he was holding before hiking his arms up under Dean's knees and shoulders and lifting him out of the tub. Dean grumbles something unintelligible, but John just hushes him, telling him he's just gonna take him to a hospital, and ignoring Dean's halfhearted protests.

 

When Dean's in the hospital recovering from the surgery his hand, wrist, and several fingers had to undergo, he's not surprised that Dad doesn't ask him what happened. Maybe Dad has always sensed Dean's sick obsession with Sam, so it’s safe to assume he'd put two and two together and known this was a result of Sam's leaving. He can't bring himself to worry what John thinks about it; in fact, he can't bring himself to worry about anything. His mind is utterly blank the way it used to be before Sam left; Dean guesses the demons of his mind were satisfied now that he'd hurt himself, so they've decided to have a little pity for him now. Their merciful silence doesn't last long though, because when John's placing his cell up against Dean's ear with an attempted look of understanding, all Dean can see in his face is disgust and impatience. _See that look he's giving you, Dean? He's thinking about how he wishes you were never born. Fuckin' making him waste his time and money here..._

“Hey, Dean. Dad said you needed to talk to me, what's going on?”

The gentle voice coming through stops those thoughts in their tracks and sends them on a new route, _He knows what you did, he knows how pathetic and gross you are, he's gonna tell you he hates you and wants you to die so just hang up now_ , but Dean doesn't have time to follow their instructions before he's automatically replying. Maybe that's just another result of the lack of control of himself he has when it comes to Sam.

“Oh, heya, Sammy. Nothin’, just wanted to know if you got there safely.” Dean's wearing that fake nonchalant smile he always puts on for Sam, despite Sam being unable to see it. When Dean realizes he's doing it, he relaxes his face back into its blank state and tries to ignore the aggressively self critical thoughts the realization brings.  
Dean's inquiry sends Sam off into a story of the bus trip there, about how he met a guy who was also going to Stanford on the trip, about all the cool landscapes he'd seen so far, and Dean just silently listens, but it's pretty hard considering those fucking voices are screaming at him in his head at the same time. He closes his eyes tight and presses his lips together so none of his pathetic sobs will spill through.  


When Sam has finished his story, Dean smiles sadly, holding the phone between his shoulder and cheek, using his uninjured hand to impatiently wipe away the tears that won't stop coming. “Wow, that's great, Sammy. I'm glad you're having fun.” Sam asks if Dean’s really okay, and Dean says yes, of course he’s okay, why wouldn’t he be? Sam accepts his answer and they hang up moments later, and Dean is left only with his self destructive thoughts and an uncomfortable father who doesn't know what to do with his son. Dean figures he has two options; he can either oblige his thoughts and break his other hand, or he can pathetically cry himself to sleep.

Hopeless and defeated, he simply decides on the latter.


End file.
